“Cats? Dogs?”
“Three cats. An Abyssinian, a Persian, a Burman. They were my true companions.”
“Marion didn’t like them?”
“She preferred ordinary cats, even though I gave her that Maine Coon for her birthday.
And she loved marionettes. Was always fooling around with Dad’s, like they were her only friends – and I think they were! Oh, Marion was different all right, you never knew with her. She lived in a world of her own as a kid – and after we’d taken her in, a black child who’d otherwise…well! Even Mother was disappointed, though she never verbalized it. Dad adored Marion, of course, he’d been adopted himself. ‘We think alike,’ he wrote once on her birthday card. I saw it, she’d taped it to her mirror.” Puss pressed her lips together. “I think he preferred Marion to his own birth daughter.” A little mascara ran into her left eye and she dabbed at it with a napkin.
“You had your mother, though. You and she thought alike?”
“Did, yes. Past tense. She helped me through my divorce when Eddie left me. Just left me, not even a note! I still don’t know why. It wasn’t another woman.”
“Another man maybe? It happens.”
Puss colored. “No, I would have suspected it! I wouldn’t have…” She sniffed again.
“Look, I have to get back and pack. Some family things I want. That Beauty puppet for one, and the White Rabbit. Your man said he’d bring them to me.”
“Willard, you mean. Yes, well, look. He has to have them a few more days – to copy. We’re doing the show again for the school kids a week from Saturday. A Rutland Senior group the following week, they’re bringing their grandkids. Willard wants to do it right. We’ll get it to you. You live in New Hampshire somewhere? Give me your address?”
Puss pulled out a pink card that read Puss Valentini, Cosmetry Consultant. “But I want the puppets now.” She looked round-eyed and pallid. “Especially the Beauty one, I can wait for the other. That fellow promised and he’ll give it to me.” Her voice was rising, the proprietor was glancing over. “Where’s he live, that Willard?”
“I don’t think he’s – ”
“Never mind, Cedric knows where. I’ll get it back.” She grabbed her purse, swung it over her silk shoulder, barely missing Fay’s head. “And cool it, lady. You know what I mean. Just cool it!” she shouted as she slammed out the coffeehouse door.
Fay’s nerves were jumping. Now her cell phone was ringing. “He’s gone,” Glenna’s voice said. “You better come quick.”
“Who’s gone, who, Glenna?”
“That man. I sent him away. He was complaining about my black-and-white TV. He was eating my Chunky Monkey. Had the whole carton in his hand, spooning it up! I couldn’t take it, Fay. He wouldn’t leave so I got out the shotgun. The one I leave in – ”
“The old piano bench. But I took out the shells.”
“Anyhow, the ploy worked. I aimed and he ran. He took my car!”
“Oh, dear. The cops will get it back. I’m on my way anyway to the police station.” Willard would have to tangle with Puss the best he could, or send her to Stormy – there was a challenge! Moreover, Fay wanted to talk to Sergeant Nova about Cedric and the controller he’d made, or had made.
“Well, get back here soon’s you can, Glenna said. “I could have a heart attack any minute, all these goings-on. I was all right when you brought in goats and foster kids. But jailbird fathers!”
“Calm down, Glenna. I’ll be back in an hour. I’ll pick up some Chunky Monkey. Make a sandwich for yourself and Beets. I’ve already eaten.”
“It’s Beets, I’m trying to tell you. That Rudolph fellow took Beets with him!”
* * *
Willard wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. A woman screaming on the phone for a marionette. He could hardly make sense of it. “I don’t have the puppet,” he said, spacing his words, trying to sound calm. His mother had high blood pressure; he could have it too, he was already pre-diabetic and he wasn’t even overweight. Ten days ago he was a sign maker, something he’d done all his life. Now he was a puppeteer, as well. How did that happen? What had he said he’d do?
“…leave at three,” the woman said, like she hadn’t heard a word he said. “I’ve an appointment in Hanover. I want to show Beauty to my clients. Marion used my hair for that puppet, did you know that? I want to show them what the original color was. So get it to me at Cedric’s. By three. No later, hear?”
“I’ll try to get it there. I can’t promise, my cousin has it, she needs it to – ”
“Three o’clock,” the woman said, “or I’ll have a cop with me. That puppet’s mine!” The receiver slammed down.
No one answered at his cousin’s house when he called, so he went over. There was no red Vespa at the little red ranch. Stormy was gone. But he knew where the puppet might be. In the V of a gingko tree by the back porch. It was Stormy’s sacred tree, its fan-like leaves fluttering in the late September breeze. Now where… Ah. Here was Beauty, her strings attached to a twig to keep her upright. He looked up at the sky and yes, clouds were skudding along, promising rain. He detached the marionette and ran her back to his car. He’d hear about this but what could he do? He didn’t want the police coming to his house as the woman threatened. So he drove straight to Cedric’s house. Best to be there well before three, he’d take no chances on the woman’s temper.
A car in the drive: that sister’s probably, not Cedric’s black Mercedes. He still couldn’t call her that P name. His knocks got no response so he left the puppet on the porch. Then back at his car he thought better of it; someone could just come along and pick it up. This was a street full of houses with a connecting sidewalk. If she wasn’t in, he’d leave it inside the door. Rather not meet her face-to-face if at all possible.
The door was unlocked. He opened it, hollered. “It’s Willard. With the Beauty puppet. Hello?”
Still no answer and he went in. The hall table was full of boxes, a packed suitcase, clothing. “Hello,” he called again. He didn’t want the woman to think he’d just walked in. “Willard here,” he shouted. “I have the Beauty puppet for you!” He took a step down the hall and called a fourth time. Peered into the living room and gasped.
The rug was gone. The huge gold-framed portrait he remembered. The woman was taking the rug and the portrait with her? Did Cedric know? The mahogany desk drawers wide open, papers on the floor, like someone had been rifling through, then left in a hurry. But she hadn’t left, had she? Not with all that clothing there in the front hall? A pair of red high-heeled boots faced each other sideways on the floor, like someone had kicked them there. Where was Cedric?
He stooped to pick up the papers, return them to the drawers. Spotted a flash of blue – something familiar peering out from under the sofa. Why, it was his model train engine!
The one he’d given Beets. When had Beets been here? Then he had a thought. About that Rudolph. A light-fingered fellow, sure, been in jail for that. Why would Rudolph come here? How would he get here, he had no car. Taxi? Rented a truck? Where’d he get the money for that?
He needed to pee; he was that nervous, that anxious. He tiptoed back down the hall and glanced through the door on the left. A bedroom with an unmade bed, a half packed suitcase on a luggage rack. Clothing and shoes scattered about on the floor, ladies panties – he looked quickly away, saw the bathroom across the hall. The door was partly open. A pair of shiny black lady’s shoes on the floor – uh oh, with legs attached! Oh my.
“Sorry,” he called out, but of course she couldn’t hear him; the bathroom fan was humming. Anyway, she’d be too embarrassed to answer – women were that way. So he hurried back to the front door, left the house, drove back home, and mercifully peed.
Ahhhh… Realized he still had the marionette. Oh no… But he’d tried, hadn’t he?
The phone rang. He caught it on the fourth ring; tried to make sense of Fay’s message. Something about Rudolph and Beets.
“Gone? We
ll, yes, I know,” he said.
“What?” Fay said. “Why didn’t you stop them?”
“Too late for that. I mean, I didn’t see Beets, but the sister’s car was still there, she was in the bathroom, I didn’t want to… I thought she probably took the rug, but then I thought of Rudolph. Stereotyping yes, but – ”
“What rug? You mean in Cedric’s house? For God’s sake, Willard, tell me from the beginning. Rudolph had been there? He took Beets, Glenna says, and in her car. It was like kidnapping, oh yes. Here. The sergeant wants to talk to you. Willard Boomer might know something,” Willard heard her say, and shuddered. He didn’t want to talk to any police.
“Boomer? Sergeant Nova, here. What can you tell us about the boy? Rudolph Wolfgang’s on parole, you know. If he took the boy, it’s back in the can with him.”
Willard visualized a can of beets, the man beating on the lid to get out. A claustrophobic thought.
“Boomer? You there?”
“Yes, yes.” Willard inhaled a breath and told what he’d seen. “I thought maybe that sister took that portrait. Might be hers, you see, inherited, you know. Then I thought…”
“Uh huh. You didn’t actually see Wolfgang there? Or the boy?”
“No, only the sister. Though she wouldn’t answer when I – well, she was in the bathroom – I think I saw her through a crack in the door. Didn’t mean to! It was just that I – well, I was going to leave a puppet for her. Just wanted to say so. But she didn’t answer – and the fan was running.” He heard the sergeant repeat the conversation aloud.
Now it was Fay on the phone. “We’re going over there, Will, to see for ourselves. Take fingerprints. They have Rudolph’s on file. I want my boy back. He’s in my care, my responsibility. I love the kid for all his shenanigans!”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Willard mumbled. He wanted Beets back, too. A lot of good in that boy in spite of the bullying episode. Willard remembered once in Branbury Elementary when an older boy pushed him into the mud and sat on him and he…
“To see if it really was Puss who took the rug and portrait,” Fay said. “I wouldn’t put it past her. But I wouldn’t trust that Rudolph either. Call aunt Glenna for me, would you? Ask her to check her purse. She leaves it around, forgets where she put it.”
“Uh huh.”
“By the way, have you seen about that yew for the controller? Puss will want it soon. I guess it’s the least we can do for her.” He started to answer, but she plowed on. “I don’t like the woman, but she is Marion’s sister. Anyway, I want to see how much fresh juice the yew produces; what harm a fresh controller for Marion would have done. So if you could get on it soon. Anything else we should know about that missing rug?”
“I don’t, um, think so,” he said.
The phone clicked off and Willard sighed. More orders. Things hadn’t changed a whole lot since Mother died. Oh. He’d forgotten to tell Fay about the engine he’d seen under the sofa. Proof the boy had been there? Well, he can’t remember everything.
Glenna was napping in her chair when he went in to ask about cutting a branch off the bush. Though a branch might not do it, he’d need a limb. Glenna wouldn’t like that. But where else was he to get the yew? He’d have to do it without waking her. Outside, he examined it: reddish-brown, scaly bark with ascending branches, leaves still yellow-green and softly pointed. Smooth to the touch. With a single hard seed embedded in each pulpy red berry. The berries, he recalled Fay saying, did no harm. Even as he looked, a chickadee plucked one in its mouth and flew off with it.
“Don’t eat the seed!” he shouted after it. But the bird’s wings were still flapping.
Pretty bush, you wouldn’t think it could cause so much havoc. He’d liked Marion, she always had a smile for him. Who’d want to snuff out her life like that? Like a bright candle, poof! And the world gone black.
He decided on two side branches, enough probably for a small control stick. Got out his saw, separated out the first branch, the larger of the two.…
“Hey!”
“Oh. Hello, Glenna. You’re awake.”
“Of course I’m awake. What’re you doing with my bush?” Glenna stood there, hands stuck on her gaunt hips – never had a child, that one. Still in her fuzzy pink slippers.
“Your tree – um, bush? Well, I was just – ”
“Trying to cut it down, that’s what you’re doing. You can’t fool me. It’s this yew scare. Well, wasn’t my bush did it.” She came shuffling up, so close he could see the scrambled egg sticking to her bottom lip. “Six years old that yew, a birthday present from cousin Homer before Fay came up here and turned my life into a zoo. When it goes, I go, I said then. And I say it again. When it goes…”
“You go, yes.”
“And now you’re chopping us down?”
Us, she’d said. Willard blanched. He felt bad. “I’m not chopping the whole bush down, I just need enough – ”
“I’m not ready to kick off yet,” Glenna said. “Too many responsibilities. They won’t let me sit down and put up my feet. Now Beets is gone. Good riddance to his old man, but why take the boy?”
“…to make a controller,” Willard explained. “Fay asked me to. It’ll help find the criminal, she says. That’s why I need only two branches.”
“Down there.” The old lady’s arm straightened out in its blue cotton sleeve; a long wrinkled finger pointed west at a clump of trees thick with red sumac and leafless trunks leaning every which way from lightning strikes or just plain old age. “Two, three yews in there. Cut one of them for Fay. Just leave mine alone.” She stroked its green branch.
Willard tucked the saw back under his arm and trudged off in the direction Glenna’s finger had pointed to.
* * *
Fay and Sergeant Nova were staring at the living room with its bare hardwood floor.
It was like a mausoleum: Marion gone, the marionettes, and now Marion’s lovely oriental carpet. The sergeant had admired that carpet – “My wife always wanted an oriental,” he said. “But on my salary?” His beak nose twitched.
“You’ll get a raise, I bet, if you solve this crime,” Fay said. “You can buy her a Persian antique.”
“Not the size of that one,” he said.
The house was quiet; no one answered from bedroom or bathroom when Fay called. Nova took fingerprints. There were plenty of those, including her own and Willard’s. What would it prove anyway, except for the addition of Rudolph’s and Beets’ prints?
Puss’s red Jetta was still in the driveway but no Puss inside. She might be in the garden, Fay suggested to Nova, collecting tomatoes from Cedric’s garden. He motioned her to follow, but she excused herself “to go to her car to make a phone call” – she wanted to look around a bit for herself – and he went out alone.
It was a shame about the portrait – probably Puss had that packed away, too. They would have to check the Jetta to see if the loot was there if Puss didn’t show up soon. It was only a short walk to town, and she might be checking out one of the beauty parlors there. Vermont women don’t all go about with bare faces and lanky hair like I do, Fay thought, catching a glimpse of a wild woman in the sunny window glass.
There was nothing, really, she could do in the living room, so she went back into the sleeping area. Puss could be taking a nap. If so, Fay didn’t want her to wake up and discover intruders. “Puss?” she shouted. “Fay Hubbard here. We’ve a missing boy, just wondered if he and his father had been here. Puss?”
Silence. Maybe Nova had found her in the garden. That would be a confrontation she’d like to hear!
The bedroom held only a half packed suitcase, a chaos of clothing on the floor, a handful of papers, including a clothing inventory – an untidy lady. But then, packing was a chore. Especially when you were taking half of your dead sister’s clothes. And Marion was an interesting dresser. Not like Puss of course, not fashionable, high-heeled, low-necked, but dressed in stylish vintage clothing: 1930’s low waists, ’40’s dickey
collars, ’60’s short leather skirts. One never knew what Marion would blossom out in, but she always looked great. A look Fay could never achieve if she worked at it day and night.
She heard the sergeant bang through the back door, and shut the front door, to look like she’d just returned from her car. “No one out there,” he said. “Hope they won’t mind I took a couple tomatoes. The wife likes the big red ones, we didn’t get a garden in this year.”
“It’s okay if – ” Fay stopped, out of breath. In shock. Something she’d spotted through the crack in the bathroom door. The black shoes Willard had mentioned. Legs sticking up out of them, black stockings, short pink skirt, the bare midriff, then the pink low-cut tank, the deep cleavage. A smell of rotting flesh – or was that her imagination?
She screamed – couldn’t help herself. Screamed and screamed, the scream issuing like a rabbit’s screech, a rabbit caught in the mouth of a wildcat.
“Jesus H…” Nova was behind her now, both of them staring up, in silence, at the marionette hanging there. Strings attached to the black heels – she hadn’t seen them at first; strings attached to elbows, fingers; strings – no, a rope around the pale flaccid neck, attached to the shower head above the bathtub. A life-size marionette, a flesh and blood marionette. Greenish eyes wide and staring at Fay, mouth open, as if to say: Why are you doing this? Why?
“Not me, I wouldn’t,” Fay started to say, then stopped. Of course she would never, even though she’d instinctively disliked the woman. But so did someone else. Disliked, maybe hated her. Or wanted something from her. “Who else? Who?” she asked aloud.
* * *
“It looks like this,” Lieutenant Higgins said two hours later as they sat together on Cedric’s sofa – where was Cedric, anyway? The medical examiner had pronounced Puss dead. The police had photographed the scene. Puss would have worried about bad hair, the swollen lips she had suffered when someone had hit her in the face before stringing her up. Yew again? Fay wondered – administered before the killer strung her up? But she’d earlier talked with Puss in the coffeehouse and the woman had seemed all right, physically, anyhow. Poor Puss – this was a shock.
Broken Strings Page 9
